


2 and 8

by bbcsherlockian



Series: The Ficlet Meme [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:30:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcsherlockian/pseuds/bbcsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“2 and 8’s first argument/makeup sex”</p>
<p>2- John Watson<br/>8- Anderson</p>
            </blockquote>





	2 and 8

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope no one minds, but I couldn't bring myself to take this seriously.

“And Anderson, shut up!” Sherlock bared his teeth and waltzed out of the room, his coat billowing behind him as he left.

 

Anderson grimaced and span around to face John, who was almost completely certain he was less than thirty seconds away from being incinerated. The man’s face was pinched together in such a way that reminded the good doctor of a dying, angry pitbull, and John thought absently of how the man could have quite attractive features if he ever bothered to calm down slightly.

 

“Oh god, you just don’t see it, do you?” John smiled faintly and fancied he could see the whites of his eyes turning slightly pink. He picked up his coat in what he hoped was a not-so-subtle gesture.

 

“You’re so star-struck by your pretty boyfriend that you’re completely blind to all of the chaos he leaves behind! He’s a psychopath. A fucking nutter.” John ground his teeth together. “You’re just as bad as he is! And I think that even if-” He was cut off by a cold stare.

 

“I don’t actually care what you say about me,” John was using _that voice_. The voice that had quieted murderers, the voice that had stopped men twice his size in their tracks, the voice that could successfully shut up Sherlock Holmes. Anderson suddenly realised how very easy it was to forget that the meek, jumper-wearing, mild mannered John Watson could be a very frightening man indeed. The forensic analyst swallowed and felt something stir in his groin. “In fact, I can’t really see how comparing me to the great Sherlock Holmes is anything less of a compliment. But do not, ever, say anything like that about my friend again. Do you understand?”

 

Anderson contorted his face into something John assumed must have been agreement. “Then, if you’ll excuse me,” He pushed past him into the open doorway. “We have a murderer to catch.”

 

As he watched the smaller man leave, Anderson clenched his fist in frustration. Who’d have thought it? John Watson. God, he was fucked.

 

***

 

A few weeks later at the Yard’s Christmas Party, Lestrade was telling a few colleagues about that absolutely hilarious occasion last year, when Sherlock had accidentally locked himself in a glue factory, and with nothing but cream crackers and a shoelace he had managed to-

 

A terse cough came from behind him. “Merry Christmas, _Greg._ ”

 

“Oh, um, Sherlock. Hi.” He grimaced. “John, hello. Fancy a beer?”

 

A couple of hours later there wasn’t a soul there who wasn’t at least slightly tipsy. John was just walking out of the loo, feeling pleasantly buzzing himself, when he was rather rudely barreled into by a noticeably wobbly Anderson, who had been obviously avoiding him since _the incident._

 

“Um.” John propped him up against the wall. “Are you… drunk?”

 

“I don’t ‘ink so,” The shorter man was greeted by a wave of spittle, and wiped at his face with the sleeve of his jumper. Anderson opened his mouth lazily and fell into John, smashing their faces together as he did so. “Ow.” John pulled back, and the forensic expert managed to learn down with slightly more control the second time, squashing his mouth against John’s ear.

 

“You’ve got a really nice arse, y’know. Really, really nice.” John blinked. “Really very nice. Mushy.” As if to prove a point, Anderson wriggled his hand down and slapped his hand against John’s jeans.

 

“Uh, I really don’t think-” At this point, the taller man stumbled slightly and fell into the men’s bathroom, pulling John with him, and tripping so he very neatly smashed his head against the corner of the urinal.

 

“I think I should probably-” John was cut off a second time when Anderson scrambled upwards and half pushed, half fell onto John, resulting in the pair squeezed together in a cubicle. John ungainly tumbled backwards onto the toilet seat, which was mercifully closed.

 

“Now really, this isn’t-” Anderson pressed a slightly wobbly finger to John’s mouth, and made a shushing noise which would have been rather condescending in a different circumstance. He licked his lips pointedly, and his finger started to take a weaving stroll across John’s cheek.

 

“You’re ‘ttractive.” He slurred, bashing his elbow against the toilet roll dispenser as he attempted to straddle John’s thighs. It was at this moment that John heard his name being called in a baritone voice from outside the door. Thank god. Anderson remained oblivious to everything except John’s hair, to which he was petting with extreme concentration.

 

The bathroom door swung open and was accompanied by a rush of noise. “... and to think that I even care. Come on, John, hurry up, we’re leaving.”

 

“Sherlock.” John managed. Anderson was drooling on his neck. The cubicle door was pushed open and the detective’s eyebrows disappeared into his fringe.


End file.
